Bridges burned
by Lizella
Summary: Might there be a kind of surviving after the opera populaire has burned down? After a tragic death? And an innocent who has to stand for trial?
1. Whoever said that death was sweet?

Authors note: Okay folks! There are hundreds of fanfics about our beloved phantom, about our dear Christine and our (mostly detested) Raoul. Now I am the very last to object. But there were other people who worked and lived and owned the opera populaire. And they had to watch it burn down, their life, their money, their world. What about them? So I want to give them a story. You might wonder about my main character. I do too. He came to me during the movie and said "I am actually a nice fellow, a bit weird, but not that bad" and I found I liked him. The great movie influence also caused me to describe the characters as they are played (well at least I try to what more can a fanfic author do?) So, this might get a bigger story, if you like it, which I hope you do. The characters I have included so far and of whom I owe none are: André (and please tell me his first name, I need to give the person whose sight this story shows a first name and can not find the book – in my shelf I mean ), Richard Firmin, Madame Giry (does she have a first name? I do not think so – not that it is given in the Musical or in Gaston Lerouxs book at least), Meg Giry and Carlotta Guidicelli. So let me start with the beginning:

Our opera was burning, because inspite of what the phantom had said, on paper it had been our opera. But as I watched that wonderful old building, which had been a home to all of us, burn to ashes, I knew that the opera populaire had never really belonged to Firmin and me.

It also was all of our profits, our investments, our so called fame and glory, that ceased to be. We were bankrupt. And all my optimism of our junk good days were gone as soon as I knew that this was what we would return to.

I did not want to give up the glamorous life I had grown so accustumed to, the young and beautiful ballerinas that had thrown themselves at us. Oh, I know it was not for my non-existing good looks or my loveable character. It was about money, as everything is. But I had enjoyed it none a less.

Firmin was the tall and slender, more handsome one with the slick black hair. On his face the no-nonsense attitude he carried around with him, calm and collected, an authority figure.

I, on the other hand, stopped growing somewhere around the age of 16 and try not to gain too much weight. Most regard me as a goof with grey curly hair. And I am, I get amused and aroused quite easily as well as nervous and over-excited. Neither am I good with public speeches.

But despite all of our physical and psychological differences, Richard Firmin and I have become friends, even partners in all of our businesses, and all that for over 20 years.

"Well that was our little trip into the culture business" I sigh and turn to my left, where Firmin should have been standing. Where Firmin did not stand! I could swear he had just been there when my mind had started to wander.

A thought hit me. But no! Firmin was much too cool-headed for such an act of desperation. Still…I frantically looked around, asked sad and grumpy opera members if they had seen him.

Until a sobbing Carlotta dramactically screeched at me that "le stupido directore was going into opera" "What? Are you sure?" Panic hit me like a wave. "Si!"

Me also running into the burning opera was most surely not the best idea I ever had, but most definitely the bravest deed I had ever done in my pathetic life. I ran around like a frightened chicked, shouting "Richard, Richard", coughing and trying not to catch on fire.

The burning opera looked even worse from the inside. All those unique and beautiful sculptures, falling off and turning to dust. A lost dancer who had tried to enrich himself in scratching some of the gold paintings off, hid his claim when he saw me and stormed out.

My eyes were burning and tears were streaming out of them. I tripped over something soft and when I looked down it was Firmin. Richard Firmin was dead as a doornail. I simply could not believe it at first, tried to convince myself that I was imagining things. His chest was in flames and I clumsily tried to extinct it with my vest. Lost like a child I simply stood there and tried all sorts of useless things, slapping him into the face, miserable tries at reviving him.

Everything around me was forgotten until breathing got harder and harder. My hair caught on fire and I only managed to extinct it after a part of my flesh had been burnt. My few powers seemed to drain, I did not fight any longer and fell down next to my friend and partner.

So this was how I would end. One says that your life passes before you in the seconds that advance your own death. And I tried to find something that had been worthy or good or true during my existance, but found nothing except for Firmins friendship.

Through the haze I imagined a woman walking towards me. Surely the angel of death. A bit older than I had imagined her to be, but still beautiful, tall and slender. Was having phantasies before your death a crime? When she advanced she looked remarkably like Madame Giry. With an almost cold professionalism she bent over Firmin, checked his pulse and shook her head. Then she came towards me, turning into a spot of colours. "Come with me, Monsieur André." I wanted to say something but coughed instead. I tried standing up, but failed at that too. At the back of my head the skin seemed to peel off slowly.

Then the angel of death seemed to notice something, I tried to figure out what, a piece of paper, a document, but my head seemed to split apart, that Firmin held tightly in his right fist. The reason he had gone back. The reason he had died.

I did not care what it was. Not later and certainly not at that moment. It had been a Firminish thing to go back and "rescue" the security papers to ensure our fortune was not lost. I had not even thought about them, when I had stood there and stared into the fire. I know that I am a coward and do not think further than the following day. But look where all his planning and deciding and gathering of money had gotten Firmin. It had brought him to turn into a pile of ashes!

She pulled it out of his hands. The smoke and fire seemed to get more and more. She took my limp arm around her neck and led me to a wall. It was just a wall, until she knocked in a certain manner and it opened to reveal a secret passageway. Madame Giry had often creeped me out with the way she knew even more hidden ways through the opera than its phantom did.

"Firmin" I managed to mumble. I did not want him to remain there, to burn in the middle of this mess, he had liked neatness so much. He needed a proper grave, with name and date and some silly speech like "He will remain in our hearts forever". But who would really remember him? Because Firmin had only had me as a true friend. And I had only had Firmin. Simple as that. And now he was gone!

And then I smelled fresh, clean, pure air, untainted by the dust and smoke. I saw the sky and passed out, sure that I was never to awake again.


	2. Why care?

Authors note: So this is for all the phantom readers who reviewed my little black words on the white paper of the computer. Thank you especially for telling me André s first name – rather strange I thought the only person called Giles was Buffys watcher – you never learn out. Oh and for any Carlotta-speech mistakes I am very dearly sorry, but I happen not to speak Italian at all. Now bye small-talk and hello story.

But I seemed not to be dead. If I had been, I would not have woken up to find a blonde, young girl gently laying a wet cloth onto my aching forehead. Or was that the best sign for heaven?

"He has woken up, mother!" the girl, who I now recognized as Meg Giry, shouted into the other room.

"How are you feeling, Monsieur André?" Madame Giry asked me while opening the curtains. It seemed to be an honest question, not one of those polite inquiries to cover up the disinterest like the noble circles liked to use it. But I guess there were no noble circles for me any longer. But had I actually ever fit in there?

"Alive" my voice was somewhat raspy and hoarse. She smiled a bit and I could not help but notice how it took 20 years off her face.

A hope came to my mind. Maybe I had only dreamed Firmins death. Only a bad dream and now I had awoken. "Firmin?" my only wish lay in that question. But Madame Girys frown told me everything I needed to know but hated to see. "No" she stated.

This much for hope. For illusion and dream. For wishes. They only come true in fairy tales. In the world of fantasy where I had liked to live. Where the burning down of an opera and the death of my only friend had ripped me out of.

"Meg, bring Monsieur André his supper." The girl who had been watching us with a childish interest, quickly hurried out.

"Where are we?" it came to my mind that I did not know this house, even though I tried to place it. I tried standing up, but had to give up soon as everything started to spin uncontrollably.

"You have to stay in bed!" my savior ordered. For that was what she was. Without her I would be only a pile of ashes. But there was a part of me, the one that was not controlled by the optimistic, no worries nature of Giles, a part that wondered if I would not have more belonged to be a bit of stray dust next to Firmin instead of alive in a soft bed.

"This is La Carlottas " I noticed how she spit the title out "summer residence. She has offered us the possibility to stay here until we find something else." Madame Giry did not seem very happy about it. The way her brow furrowed told how soon she wanted to get out of this charity trap.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I could not even begin to imagine the time span. "Four days." "We thought you might never wake up again." Meg chimed in as she served me a soup. "You do not say such things to a patient" her mother told her off.

When I lifted the spoon up towards my lips, the lady of the house stormed in. Without her make up, jewellry and glittering clothes she looked just like a woman who was beginning to show her age. And somehow she even seemed sad. Maybe I had underestimated her capability of honest feelings. I had know she and Piangi had belonged to each other in some way, but it was the first time I came to think that she might have actually loved him.

Her face was inches before mine. "So you decided on waken up!" And I felt my pity for her dimish quite quickly. Unconsciously I wince as my head starts throbbing again. "Does your tete hurt?" She surprised me once more with her quick change of moods. "Yes" I sounded like the sissy I was. "Take this!" she gave me some tablets, a sort of painkillers.

Carlotta disdainfully stared at the back of my head. "Does not look good." Just what I needed - a compliment turned around.

"Do you have a mirror?" I was not sure I actually wanted to see it. But if others did, I guess I would have to, too. Meg gave me one and I noticed what an attentious girl she seemed to be.

Carlotta was all to right. About half of my hair was gone, but instead of just looking bald, a circle of burned, red flesh had remained. I shuddered and put down the mirror.

Was this what the phantom had felt like? But no, I did not know what he must have felt like, never would. For it had been his face, the body part that made a person unique, that gave us our identity. I could not help touching mine with my hands, although I knew everything was fine there. But I could not bear picking up the mirror again.

And there were people taking care of me, it was almost laughable. Never in my life had there been three women around me who all somehow made sure I felt well.

"A wig would hide most of it." Meg tried to assure me. "No" noone was more astonished by my answer than I was. But there was a strange urge in me – I did not intend on hiding what had happened to me and even more, to Firmin. People in the world out there should know that the burning down of the opera populaire had meant more to some, than that they would have to simply go to anhother theatre. And who would I want to impress anyway?

"Your decision" Carlotta stalked off into the living room. I returned to slowly sipping the chicken soup.

Meg kept watching me until I felt like some sort of museums piece. "You should go and help Carlotta." Not that she needed help at the moment. Meg did not seem too happy about it, not a fan of Carlottas presence either, but she left the room, slightly grimacing at her mother.

How did it feel to have children? There were times when I had wondered what it was like to be married, to have a wife, children, even parents-in-law, all that came with it. And when I watched the interaction between Meg and her mother the thought came to me, that it might not be bad at all, even be worth the time and trouble.

I finished my soup and disgrudgingly felt sleep dawn on me again. Were four days not enough of it? "You should sleep" was she reading my mind? I closed my eyes, fearing where I would return to. I was afraid of the fire, the empty and sad faces and then Firmins dead body. There are events in a life that mark it, that take its toll and will never leave you until you die. They give you an identity, a certan characteristicum, but also a fear.

"You made a much wiser decision than I thought you capable of. How often I tried to get him to stop hiding in those secret dorms, to forget about his deformation, to stop staring into mirrors and tormenting himself. To write his music in public, to show the genius he was to the world. To see that not all people in it would be repulsed. That they would get to know his work and admire him for it. But he never believed me, he had no trust in the world and its citizens." Madame Girys mind seemed far away in memories. "You choose to remain in the land of living. Maybe there is more to you, Monsieur André, than meets the eye?"

I wondered that too. But sleep came over me and soon I started snoring.


	3. Desillusioning

Authors note: What to say? Not very many reviews sadly. Where are all the terriffic people who read my first chapter? Vanished from the face of earth? Anyway, I am an upstanding girl. So here I go. Still own and owe noone! Oh and excuses for possible wrong sentences in the court, I am neither a lawyer nor someone who studies to be such. And I decided to give Madame Giry a first name.

I saw Firmin. He was standing in front of me, tall and strong, powerful, a statue, the way he had always seemed to me. The flames which were leaking at his clothes seemed without effect on his skin. But he kept staring at me, out of these unreadable eyes, which were cold and dead, as they had never been in life. And then he said: "It is your fault I had to die, Giles. I could have lived. I should have lived."

My own shout wakes me up. I find myself in that somewhat cozy little room. Just a dream, I try telling myself. But it feels so real, I can still see him standing there.

"You could have done nothing to save him. He was long dead before you reached him." But Madame Girys matter-of-fact voice can not fully reach me. Psychologists would tell me not to blame myself for his death. But I do. And I will, for the rest of my natural life span.

It will always be there, this nagging and neverending questions: "Could I not have noticed earlier, that he was gone? Could I not have gone looking for him more systematically? Could I not have told him in advance how little those damned papers really mattered?" But worse were the answers to those questions. The "yes, yes, yes" resounding in me head. The knowledge of what I could have done and did not do.

Carlotta rushed in. She seemed to be in some sort of rage, well, even more so than usual. "Look this!" She held todays newspaper in her hands and gestured at the leading article. Of course, the burning down of the famous opera, had been top news for the last week. But what was so special about this article. "Read!" she threw the paper onto me and quickly said some italian curses.

"The burning down of the opera populaire – all planned and about money?

Yesterday morning our office received some new insights on the fire last week. So far the mystery of the phantom of the opera, who was said to be the cause for the tragic "accident" has been on everybodies minds.

But how about a more factly reason? Our informant, who wants to remain anonymous, told us that he saw Monsieur Giles André, the other former owner of the opera populaire, standing quite untouched next to his dead colleague Monsieur Richard Firmin. Trustable sources have informed us about the security papers for the opera, with a sum of 1 000 000 000 Francs, which had been in Richard Firmins hands, shortly before his death. This sum was shared by both of the owners, but in this case, thanks to the death of his partner, Giles André is the owner of the whole sum. Which throws up the question if this is not rather the case of murder due to greed instead of an usolved mystery or phantomable accident?

This is the accusation Giles André will see himself confronted with on the following Monday, the 16th of July. Let us hope that the court will make an unbiased decision and not let cold-blooded murderers continue running freely around or beloved Paris and burn down our ancient buildings!"

Two pictures were left and right to the article, "Richard Firmin – deceased" stood under the left one. "Giles André – murderer?" under the right.

The newspaper fell onto the floor. What was he to feel? Sadness? Anger? Hate? Fear?

He tried staring onto the wall, not wanting to face Carlotta, Madame or Meg Giry, who looked at him and expected some sort of reaction.

He had never before been accused of anything. Although some of Firmins and his business affairs surely had not always been strictly legal and by the law. And now he had been accused of murder.

How could they believe him capable of that? If it had been out of rage or panic, but what they thought he had done was cold-hearted, bloody and planned murder. How could anyone look at that goof on that photograph and think he could do that? But the outer appearance never mirrored the inner features, he knew that. And those redacteurs, those newspaper-readers, they did not know him. Only the three women in this room knew at least a part of him.

"None of us told them, I swear" Meg suddenly said, looking indeed sorry. And he believed the girl. He had not even been asking himself that question before now. But when he thought about it. Trying to remember was hard, but then he found the young man in his mind. The man who had been inside the burning opera house and had stolen some of the golden paintings. Whom he had left to take parts of his opera! And that had been his gratefulness.

It was the second paiful wound, his optimism had received in the last week and he felt it break away. He wondered how much more he could take until he would become a bitter, hateful man.

And he had learned another lesson. The one that most people are treachourus and selfish. That it is better to trust noone but yourself. And that others like stabbing you into your back, rather than facing you in a duel. A valuable lesson, learned very late in life, but learned only the hard way.

"We will do everything we can, to help you." The girl surely meant it sweet and encouraging, but it did not help. Neither did the look Carlotta gave him, one that would have looked like pity on anyone elses face. But it could not be possible – La Carlotta only pitied herself.

But Madame Giry looked as stern and strict as always and simply said "Those false accusateurs do not know you." And he hoped she was right.

As all days we fear come, this one also came way too soon, too early, too fast. And he could have done without the police escort to the palace of justice, without the hundred onlookers, without the judges that gave him icy stares, which seemed to condamn him to death.

"They have no proof" Madame Giry had told him. It was his mantra. But he was not sure if he actually believed in it.

It was his fault after all, he thought. Maybe he deserved all this.

"Rise, Monsieur André." He stood up, still feeling weak and wondered if he would fall. "You have been accused of murdering Richard Firmin." He flinched. "What do you pledge?"

"Not guilty" my voice wavered much more than I wanted it too. I hated all their eyes on my, of all the public speeches I detested, this was definitely the worst. Weakness was what I felt and about as harmless as a grasshopper.

The judge eyed me suspiciously. "First witness – Madame Magdalene Giry" It was the first time I ever heard her first name. She came through the door and walked straight towards the witness table. "Swear that you will tell the truth and nothing but the truth." "I swear"

"Your are not related to the accused?" "No" She gave me something that might have been a reassuring glance. Unfortunately the judge seemed to have his eyes everywhere.

"Which kind of relationship do you entertain with the accused?" I wondered if I would ever be a person, a man again, simply something else than "the accused". I must have been really desperate, but her simple answer of "Friendship" gave me some sort of hope.

"When you found Monsieur André, was Monsieur Firmin already dead." Truthful answers are required. "Yes" "So the accused could have murdered him, before you appeared?" What did that judge have against me? I had never seen him before and neither did he know me. And still he seemed quite keen on putting me into jail for the rest of my days.

"I do not regard Monsieur André" she decidedly pronounced my name, making clear I was not just "the accused" to her, "as capable of murder." The representative of those who accused me, shot up to intervene: "Personal statement – irrelevant to the case." "There were no signs of a fight or a death caused by a person instead of the fire." Madame Giry, or Magdalene, gave him an icy glare.

"Thank you" the judge seemed not too pleased with her answers. Good for me. She stiffly walked out, but I caught her eyes a moment before she was out the door. Hope!

"Next witness – La Carlotta Guidicelli". Making quite a scene, she walzed in, a doorkeeper vainly trying to rid himself of her pudels teeth which were sunken into his right leg.


	4. The court

Authoress calls: Hi there. Sniff, no reviews to come? Do not worry, you only have to endure two more chapters. Still, LEAVE A BLOODY COMMENT, will you please? Thanks for those who did. So here comes the drama queen, literally! Oh, yes, I know this is very short, even for me.

La Carlotta Guidicelli seemed to believe that she was returning to glory. She swooned in carrying herself like a queen. And the look on her face almost expected applause. I almost wanted to shout "Hello, this is my trial, not your performance!"

"Your name?" the judge almost sighed, as if he did not know it, she was the reason his wife had carried him into the opera populaire for the last four years and he had to endure what in his ears sounded remarkably like a cats meowing.

"Carlotta Bernedetta Guidicelli" she spoke pompously.

"Not related to the accused?" she sneered "Thankfully non." "The same goes for me" I thought.

"Tell us, when you saw the accused for the last time before the murder happened." Something inside me protested against the word "murder".

"At about ten. Monsieur André looking very confused, running like chicken and asking me whether I see Monsieur Firmin. I tell him Monsieur Firmin gone into buring opera, do not know why, idiota directore. Then Monsieur André running off in there too."

"How did the accused behave? Did he display rage? Hatred?" Carlotta gave a short laugh.

"Oh, non. Monsieur André always scared and nervous, not very manly, understand? But still go into fire, looking for Monsieur Firmin. Stupido, but brave, I think."

Was it my ears or had Carlotta just said she thought I was brave. What a wonderful time to start getting some sort of compliment from women.

"Thank you, Madame Guidicelli. You may leave." The judge seems slightly displeased with her answers. Are they not supposed to be unbiased?

Carlotta dramatically crosses the room to get back her doggy and fussing over it.

"Now I ask the accuser and eye-witness to come forward." The judge proceeds.

It was, of course, the young man, who had been caught by me. He stood there and told the court and all the speculatours, how he had seen me finishing off my partner. Then he dramatically sniffed on about how he wanted to save Monsieur Firmin, but was unfortunately too late.

And he was so damned convincing. If it had not been myself whom he was describing as the heartless murderer, I would have believed him at once.

But I had seen this man, Gregory Fields he had said, as he had been scrubbing off golden greasepaint from the walls, letting small statues glide into his pocket. I knew about his true nature.

The world seemed decidedly unfair to me. I would not have taken any legal steps because of his stealing valuable goods. And yet he accused me of murder.

The only question I asked myself was "Why?"

Finally his story, for it was a fairy-tale, but a good one, one that sufficed to convince children of its truth, featuring me as the murderer for money, ended.

"Now the accused will be given the chance to defend himself." Terrific, what kind of chance was that? I was terrible at public speeches, if I would have to talk for my life, I could only fail.

Everyone stared at me, which was enough to make me feel even more awkward. "My name is Giles André." They would at least have to believe that. I swallowed, it still hurt, but it might be my one and only try. "Richard Firmin was my business partner for over twenty years. When we were offered the chance to be directors of the opera populaire, we were overjoyed to leave the oldmetal firm. In our contracts it was always stated that each would own half of the business and in case of" I was laying my heart on a platter for them, I hoped they at least knew its worth "death, the other would be entitled to all of it."

"I did not kill Richard Firmin!" the desperate part of me shouted, my rational mind, if ever I had one, completely disappeared. "He was my friend, my only and best friend. I am not interested in money. Yes, I enjoyed the glorious living, the fame, the power and the women. But I would not have commited a crime for that."

"Monsieur André" the judge interrupted,. When had he discover that I had a name besides "the accused"? "Tell us your version of what happened that night?"

I gulped. " I was talking to Richard, when he suddenly was gone. I had not noticed and went searching for him. Carlotta told me he had gone back into the opera and I followed him."

Gods, I was so pathetic, noone would believe me, I was doomed. Flashes of his dead body zoomed through my mind. I hoped I was not going to throw up. "When I finally found him, he already was dead." I closed my eyes and opened them again, to get the pictures out. " I tried to revive him, but I was either too late or I simply" I began to stammer "lacked any skill in that area. Madame Giry found me and it was her who discovered the paper he held in his hand. She saved my life there."

And if I somehow made it through this, I would be eternally grateful to her. If I got sentenced, my last breath would be used to curse her for not letting me end that day, next to my friend.

All left for me to do was to stare at those twelve people I did not know, who were watching me with the interest one held for a peculiar interesting animal in the zoo. And they huffled off into the neighboring room to decide over my fate. They held my life in their hands and that was something I did not like at all.

"I want to live in freedom, to maybe still find some sort of happiness, a real one, not the flittering, glittering pretense of luck." my mind blared. And I felt entitled to it, I had a right to receive these things."

A part of me wished for Madame Giry and her solemn, comforting presence to be standing next to me, for Megs endless happy chattering or even for Carlottas dramatic screeches. And having to await the decision, that would change my life forever, alone, was the worst of all.

Finally the twelve came out again, it had seemed like hours to me, even days or years, though in truth it had only been a matter of half an hour.

"The court asks for your decision" the judge stated and expectantly looked at those ordinary people who had to suddenly say whether I was innocent or guilty.


	5. All well that ends well?

Authoress note: I am going to end this trial tonight, for once and forever. Thanks to those who read and stuck up with me. I learned my lesson, Never post a "Phantom of the Opera" fanfiction without the phantom, gets you no readers. Every girl and woman just wants Eric and pitiful few seem to care about any other characters (least of all Raoul, in whose case I can understand perfectly well). Anyway, this is my last chapter. REVIEW!

This was it, the last, the final decision. One or two words that meant nothing to them and my whole existance to me. But the seconds of silence were the worst, I had never been able to remain calm and patiently waiting for long.

"Not guilty" What? I must have misheard! But, no. They had actually said it, I could not believe my ears.

After all I knew I was not guilty, but they had not and still they had made the right decision. The judge frowned and I sillily smiled at him. My accusant glared daggers at me and hastily left the builting, possibly to hide his scraped off goldpaint under his bed.

The three women I had spent my last weeks with, came rushing in. "I knew you would make it out" Meg told me off and gave me an overenthusiastic, bone-crushing hug.

"Only because of me helping" La Carlotta stated "I gotten him out!" "Of course, thank you very much" I was just so happy, I would have told her anything. And it seemed to make her glad too, so why not.

The one action I did not expect however, was for Madame Giry, no, Magdalene, to advance onto me with a deadly serious expression on her face and then to suddenly kiss me. I mean really kiss me.

Obviously her daughter suffered from shock too, because she decidedly did not know whether to faint or to laugh, but ended up smiling.

I remembered when Firmin had asked me with which of all the women at the opera, I could imagine to spend my life with, not the night, or a couple of weeks, but really, like the rest of my days. Of course we both where unexcusably drunk and level-headed at that time and not capable of thinking straight any longer.

No need for excuses. I said "Madame Giry" and Richard looked at me quite strangely and slurred "Why?" which I could only answer with a "No idea. Just is so." I still had no idea. But it still was that way.

For that moment I believed that everything could be okay in the end. Of course there was no such thing as a "happily ever after", only a "if they are not dead, then they still live".

But I imagined our tries at rebuilding the opera populaire, reopening, again enduring La Carlotta as the star of each evening, marrying Magdalene, becoming a step-father to Meg and so an and so forth. And those prospects were not the worst in my eyes.

I would always remember Richard Firmin, the opera would be reopened in his name and I would make sure that the world that was to come would remember him the way I did, as a clever and intelligent businessman, but more important, as a true and loyal friend.


End file.
